


Genies Don't Sleep

by DankSide_ofTheMoon



Category: Aladdin (2019)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:08:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24104170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DankSide_ofTheMoon/pseuds/DankSide_ofTheMoon
Summary: Time passed and he had two more masters. Only the last made it past his first wish.
Relationships: Hakim the Guard/Jafar (Disney)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23





	1. The Masters

Jafar’s first master was a complete idiot, as expected. 

He remembered the merchant. A rich man - greedy, and plump with both jewelry and pride. He had a face that saw no difficulty in life and Jafar recognized his posture as a shadow of the proud princes that once sought to court a princess of Agrabah in the days past. He did not remember his name; he never remembered the names of his masters. It was irrelevant to him. Instead, he could recall with clarity the primal fear, then awe, at the plumes of blood-red smoke and feathers erupting from the lamp in the merchant’s hands. Iago had flown at the rich man before circling the sky. The parrot had let out an ear-piercing scream at Jafar before taking hold of his freedom. He watched him ride the wind; leaving him before the merchant. 

The merchant had picked at Jafar’s nerves as a vulture picks as carrion - holding as much command in speech over himself; a being that could have turned the ground he stood on into a lake of fire without a word. In retrospect though, Jafar knew why he hated the man so. The merchant had the same look to him as he had for the genie that imprisoned him. It was as if a mirror was held up to himself as his first master wished for immortality gleefully, eyes wide and hands gripping the lamp as if he would not part with it for the world. Jafar obliged, and had smirked coldly. With a wave of a hand, he had turned the man to a pile of sand in his own home and scattered him with a gust of wind. Immortal, he was now as he was not mortal to start; the deserts were not liable to death or decay and Jafar’s laughs bounced across the dunes as he returned to the dark, iron lamp. 

Time passed and he had two more masters. Only the last made it past his first wish. 

The second was a poor butcher’s wife with four children, Jafar recalled. She worked as a gardener for a lord and was a gentle, humble woman, but one who irked him with her gullibility. When he had emerged from his lamp, she had a hundred questions about the system of the wishes, genies, and his past (of which Jafar made it a principle of avoiding). He did take advantage of her chattiness and found that after the disappearance of the merchant, his wealth was cut up and served to his employers; one of which was the husband of this woman. His lamp had passed into his home and was discovered when the woman was cleaning the husband’s newly-acquired possessions. 

As they talked, the woman became more and more persistent of his past, and to dodge the inquiry, he finally lied and told her that all three genie wishes must be made within a day or else he would vanish from her for a new master. The woman had believed him and thanked him for humoring her questions with the traditional kiss on the cheek before committing to her first wish.

Holding the lamp to her bosom, she had wished for fresh fruit and vegetables whenever her family so desired. A humble wish - a wish that Jafar could have provided in any other way than he did; to the benefit of a family. A wish that he had no need to punish. A woman who had proven herself as worthy of his friend. Yet his mind drifted and tainted the magic that flowed from him. Jafar transformed the woman into a fig branch that bore whatever fruit or vegetable the holder thought most satisfying and replenished itself at will. He left her on her husband’s bed; wrapped in a letter to him that explained the branch’s anomalous properties. He returned to the lamp without much struggle after that.

The last master Jafar had was a boy barely ten years of age. His face was hardened by the sun and he looked up at Jafar with tired eyes set deep in his skull when he appeared. There was no emotion in them apart from a small twinge of fear. They had stood in an alley of a small village, and the kid seemed to have been an orphan. Jafar had given him a false smile; he disliked children in the same way that one may have a dislike towards cats.

The boy was guarded, and when told the customary genie-guarantees and rules, he made his first wish very carefully. He asked for a steed; a fine-bred Arabian horse that would obey him and him only - who would carry him to the ends of the earth without complaint. He wove restrictions for Jafar as a spider weaves a web and trapped him in the most specific wish Jafar had ever expected. When the boy had finished the wish, Jafar was almost happy to grant it.

He gave him the horse - equipped and with all that he asked. The boy nodded when presented with the steed and said no words of thanks. He did not embrace Jafar as the woman had nor displayed the anticipating prowess as the man. He simply patted the stallion’s haunches and mounted; strapping the lamp to a sash around his waist and summoning Jafar back inside. He could faintly feel the motion of the horse and hear the steady thumps of its steps within the confines of his lamp as they rode across the sands. 

It was dark when the boy called him back out again. The horse was resting some meters away, and the boy had set up camp with a blanket from the horse’s back laid near a bonfire he had built with driftwood. The blanket acted as a makeshift bed - for the boy. Genies don’t sleep, after all.

They were in the heart of an oasis rich with palm trees that cast shadows like a giant’s hand overhead; fronds whispering occasionally in the dry, desert wind. It was cold, and the sand dotted with ferns and grass shifted under his heels. The boy was poking at the fire as he sat on a rock. His back was to a glistening pond that sustained the oasis. The lamp was resting beside him in a patch of grass.

The boy wordlessly gestured to another rock next to him and Jafar had sat; staring from the boy back to the fire. He had listened to the crack of the flames and let the smell of burned wood and palm fill his lungs for some time before asking the boy why he had summoned him. The boy shrugged, throwing another log into the flames, and told him that he felt it fitting to have someone beside him in the dark. Jafar pointed out that he had the fire. The boy shrugged again and said that fires aren’t always enough.

Jafar recalled then that he did a most curious thing. The boy pulled a branch from the flames and held in his right hand while turning his entire body to the genie beside him; keeping the fire at a safe distance from himself as it ate away at the tip of the branch. Cross-legged atop his rock, the boy then grabbed Jafar’s wrist with his left hand and flipped the genie’s hand palm-up before holding the flaming branch in his right hand over Jafar’s open palm. 

The boy’s eyes were wide then when he - for his second wish - asked Jafar to show him his magic and make the flame dance. He had stared at the boy and nodded - pulling the fire off the branch and onto his palm as if plucking a fruit. The flame suddenly burst into a renewed spirit of red and orange; eating away at the air before taking on the shape of a cobra and weaving through his fingers, spitting little rings of smoke that flowed harmlessly at the boy’s face. The boy had smiled for the first time, and Jafar did too. 

“Would you like to hold him?” he had asked. The boy nodded his head in a violent “yes” and reached out his hand. Jafar clasped the boy’s forearm and let his magic flow from him as the little, flaming cobra slithered on to the boy’s wrist. He was laughing now at the warm ticklish sensation it gave and played with the flame in a way that stirred at a heart Jafar didn’t know he still had. 

For a time, the cobra had looped itself around the boy’s wrists and gave playful nibbles and spat more plumes of smoke at the boy. The boy was beyond himself now, as the cobra wove from forearm to forearm - before finally resting in the boy’s hands. Flicking its tongue of embers one last time, it dissipated into the night, leaving the boy with a large smile on his face.

The boy had sighed, content - dusting his hands off on his trousers before turning to look at Jafar as if for the first time. His eyes fell from the heavy, velvet brocade, armored vest, to the pair of golden cuffs lined with rubies fastened around his wrists. And he gritted his teeth - had hoped that the boy would not ask what he definitely did.

“Why do you wear those heavy bracelets?” he had finally questioned. Very well. Jafar turned to him and mustered his sweetest smile and found, with some disgust at himself, that it wasn't as fake as he would have liked. 

“Do you not like them?”

The boy cocked his head to one side, and before Jafar could move away, he grabbed his forearms and pulled them towards himself with surprising force. He had internally cursed all children and their inability to keep their hands to themselves at that. 

The boy examined the cuffs and let him go after a moment and stared him in the face.

“They’re very nice,” he said slowly, scratching his chin. “They would be very valuable if sold...Genie - would you give them to me for my final wish? Just to have something to remember you by. They are very pretty.”

Jafar froze and found himself at a complete loss for words. He wanted to offer a smile as sweet as the devil’s own and agree, whole-heartedly. He would tell the boy exactly what to wish for; put the exact words in his mouth that would set one free and imprison another. His sentence would be over, and he would cease to be a slave to the lamp. He’ll unleash the vengeance on Shirabad and return to Agrabah as no Sultan or King, but a god. All it would take was a boy with wide eyes.

“I can’t do that,” Jafar had said instead and tore himself away from the boy’s disappointed gaze; staring right at the fire instead. Tiny hands suddenly grasped and tugged at his cloak.

“Why, Jafar? Why not?” the boy had asked in a quiet, pleading voice. For a moment, Jafar considered telling the boy the truth - that the cuffs were no choice of vesture but a penalty. He pushed the thought away just as quickly, though. There was nothing to be gained from that other than pity.

He turned to the boy.

“They’re not mine to give away,” he offered instead. 

The boy blinked then lowered his head and nodded. It didn’t seem to Jafar as if he was suspicious of the reason. He rubbed his eyes with little hands and yawned, arching his back in a stretch. 

The boy fell asleep on the genie after a while. Jafar eventually dragged him to the make-shift bed. Observing the boy for a second longer, he decided to unbuckle the cloak around his shoulders and throw it over the boy’s figure before taking back his seat on the rock to watch the flames dance with the shadows. 

_ Genies don’t sleep _ , he thought - tossing his head skyward to observe the thousands of stars beyond the canopy of palm trees. He wasn’t sure why he refused to take advantage of the boy’s naivety, or even let him live for so long. He despised children and hated the confinement of lamp; to stuff the former into the latter should be a wish come true for himself. 

Yet Jafar had dismissed the opportunity willingly. As suppressed as the reasons were, he knew why, deep down. It was for the same reason that he had turned the merchant to sand and the woman to a branch. He was not a good man. He was filled with nothing but hatred and distributed nothing but pain. He was evil and whenever he began to doubt it (as he did now, half-gazing at the steady rise and fall of the boy’s chest under the cloak), Jafar would remember a Sultan, a guard, and a princess. A Sultan who he had held in his heart as  _ Baba _ \- and who he had deceived for two years, then tortured for two hours. A guard - Hakim - who had loved him for a time before that. His Hakim had saved him from a prison and thrown him in another after realizing who he was. Jafar didn’t blame him - he would have done the same. Though the pain never got easier with the recollection.

Then there had been Jasmine - the Princess, the darling of Agrabah. Jafar recognized her intelligence from the very beginning. She was the only one that saw him as the evil he was and tried to explain to Hamed that Jafar’s ambition meant only death and destruction for the kingdom. Not only that, but she was a constant reminder that he was an outsider, that he was hated for breathing the same air as them - hated, hated, hated. 

The women he had encountered in his life were always so damn intelligent, Jafar thought - and intelligence was a weapon. For that - and as a personal grudge to Shirabad’s bloodline - he had the Sultana murdered. Jasmine was just as smart as her mother - if not more. He had tried to belittle and downgrade her opinions and speech to the Sultan for a time and that worked for a while; in exchange for Jasmine’s heightened hatred towards him. If only she knew how much he hated himself, Jafar thought with a bitter smile.

Then the thief that had called himself prince arrived and a shift in power occurred. Jafar had read enough books on political strategies and toppled enough kingdoms with little more than a few well-placed words in a meeting to know exactly who it was that came waltzing through the gates, not a day after he lost half his life’s work. He had predicted the moves of those around him up until the very end when the thief had goaded him into imprisonment. Jafar remembered nothing but the anguish, the pain, and regret that buried his consciousness. Regret at letting his plans and emotions be known to anyone for the first time in years, the pain of betrayal and hurt that had led him to this moment and the anguish that had not left him since he felt the whip tearing through his back; armed by jeering Shirabad guards.

Jafar let out a dry sob that came out more like a quiet, broken whimper. He had torn apart a family would have - and may still - level a kingdom if given the chance. Without that anger, he was nothing - Jafar thought. It was anger that had driven him to madness, but also survival. Anger kept him alive in that cell and it kept him after all it had forced him to do. Yet anger failed him in providing the unspoken truth; that Jafar wished he hadn’t made the deal in that cell. 

For now, as the anger fades, he found that the madness in him had only served to nourish the pain that threatened to engulf him. Pain for the pain that he had caused and which now he was too tired to repress; too exhausted to argue against.

_ Genies don’t sleep _ , Jafar thought sadly; his eyes drinking in the light of the fire as his heart thumped to the beat of the boy’s breaths. 


	2. Your Fault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Problems of the past become problems of the present if not dealt with. Eventually.

It had seemed for a time that the boy had no plan other than to tow Jafar across the deserts.

In a fortnight, they had traveled to the northernmost quadrants of the black sea and the byzantine empire. A week later they had turned southwest and explored the Persian estate; from Tehran to Kabul. They set up camp in between cities and when a proper bed presented itself, Jafar had naturally procured gold for their stay at hostels. When asked their relation by wayward gypsies or curious owners, the boy called Jafar - who had not quite looked young enough to be his brother and old enough to be his father - “uncle”. It was an excuse that had furthered no questions, so he had tolerated it enough. 

The boy often stopped at important cities in between to admire the architecture and taste the foods of the city’s culture. He spent his days skipping through the streets, hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, eyes bright and gestures jubilantly accompanied by an unblemished smile. The boy often made it a point of bouncing from Jafar to whatever wonder he perceived next; be it a daredevil street juggler maneuvering an array of flaming torches or some priceless trinkets in a window, the boy never failed to herald it to Jafar, overflowing with excitement. 

Jafar, in turn, acknowledged his excitement with nods and controlled smiles of his own. He followed the boy and made sure to keep a close eye on him when they were in crowds. Not out of protectiveness, of course - and definitely the furthest from attachment. It was only the hassle of finding another master as easy to interact with kept him on guard with the boy when traversing through the suffocating masses. Surely it was just the utter unpredictability of humanity’s greed and the time he must spend in the lamp should the boy be lost to him and the lamp given to another that made Jafar draw himself as close to the boy at times as the boy’s own shadow. 

Their wanderings had carried them across the deserts, to the edges of villas bordering oceans and even towns atop mountains. Jafar had been reserved through it all but humored the boy by suggesting places and cuisines he knew the little one would find marvelous. He financed whatever the boy wished to have and, perhaps most importantly, provided him with security. 

But it wasn’t as if Jafar needed to try so hard in getting people to leave them alone. He had noticed very early on that magic had a…. Pressure to it. It wasn’t so much something people could see, touch, or catch a whiff of but feel. It varied from person to person and those that have sensed the touch of magic would describe the sensation as having the air slowly sucked out of one’s chest, a slight ringing in the ears, or a sudden shift in temperature. It clung to the sorcerer and disturbed animals and people alike; unless suppressed by a constant, trained effort. Indeed, Jafar had hated it for a while - found it as irritating as fleas to a dog. Thankfully, sorcerers build up an immunity, and overtime, forget they exude such powers. So who could’ve blamed him if he underestimated the raw effect that a sorcerer turned genie would have?

Jafar remembered the night the boy had wanted to see some festival or other in the heart of Tehran. Something to do with honoring the Persian deity Mithra - god of the rising sun. It was custom in the cities to dance, drink, feast and keep the celebrations alive until dawn; signifying the vigilance of Mithra’s subjects every night in preparing his entrance the next day; heralding the summer solstice in which the days grow longer and longer as Mithra’s powers increase. 

Jafar couldn’t help rolling his eyes when the boy had dragged him into the festivities. The idea of gods, goddesses, and other higher beings was utterly preposterous to him; even more so now that he could be called one. The humans worship them not out of true belief, but fear of death without an afterlife, the alienation of oneself through the failure of adherence to a community, or just plain stupidity, Jafar thought. The inability to accept that not everything in life could be reasoned with leads to the inane deification of divine power. To him, it was the ultimate form of mental weakness that he had nothing but contempt for.

Yet as Jafar saw the boy bounding this way and that; swaying to the music and gorging himself on roast meat and sautéd vegetables of every kind, he found it utterly pointless to try and explain that to him. It would have done nothing other than confuse the boy at best and depress him at worst. So Jafar, in turn, had rested with an arm propped against the outdoor bar, drinking himself into oblivion and death-staring anyone that tried to approach him. 

Some man eventually plopped himself down beside him, though a whole lot more intoxicated. Jafar envied him for that and had wordlessly emptied another glass of wine down his throat; focusing on slowing his more-than-mortal metabolism, willing that familiar alcohol-induced fog to his head with little result. In the meantime, the man beside him had called for another shot, then turned to Jafar, his eyes both scrutinizing and predatory.

“You look familiar,” he had said, eyes narrowing and tongue darting out to lick across his bottom lip. 

“And you look drunk,” Jafar returned, looking at the last droplets of wine at the bottom of the cup with dismay.

The other man laughed and called the barkeep to refill Jafar’s glass. Jafar cocked his head at the man and was about to decline and move away when the man sloppily draped an arm across his shoulders. 

“I know what you are,” he breathed, lips practically against his ear. Jafar could smell the stench of gin and tonic on the man and he couldn't help but tense under the man’s grip, his magic rolling under his skin and across his muscles like a lit fuse traversing his nerves and lighting them aflame.

“Then you should let me go if you want to live.”

The man ignored him.

“You’re Jafar Asmier, Gr-Grand Vizier to the Sultan of Agrabah. I’ve heard about you - Keeper of the Carmine Channel, Herald of the Halcyon. I W-wa-was in Agrabah wh-when you escaped. Th-they said you escaped-”

The man burped and Jafar was now filled with disgust not only at his words. 

“-with a hundred cavalry. A decade later now and then...Now they want you back. The Sultan is ill and the princess...Off- offers a lordship and mighty grand estate for you, alive. Willing to drag you back for it to cure the Sultan.”

The man’s hand had traveled to the back of Jafar’s neck and tightened around his collar, pushing him down into the seat as he turned to take another long swig from his drink. Jafar could sense the fuse that sparked along his nerves growing shorter yet. He had just about sobered up. The man kept muttering.

“...B-bounty hunters everywhere now - looking for  _ you _ ! Lordship is a guaranteed fortune, you know? A-an-and the markets are being plundered. Agrabah’s militia wasn’t what it used to b-be; be-before the princess though. N-not her fault. Your fault. All yours, of course. You knew that.”

The gruff voice of the man brought a lot more annoyance to him than fear; particularly the slurred accusations of the drunkard. His fault? He’s been stuck in a lamp for ten years now and the most damage he’s done was pulverize a merchant, turn a woman into an enchanted piece of wood and give a boy a horse. The faults of Agrabah’s militia couldn’t be further from his agenda; though the man apparently believed the contrary. 

More importantly - did he say that he escaped with a hundred calvary?  _ What?  _ Jafar wondered who it was to come up with  that lie explaining his absence from Agrabah. A part of him decided that they’ll be the first to die. Another part couldn’t care less. But who was it? The Sultan would not have provided explanations, the princess would have refused to engage in rumors… No. It had to have been Aladdin. The thief. Of course; Painted himself as the princely savior of a kingdom plagued by a treacherous Vizier who had slithered away in the night with a formidable portion of military power to collapse a kingdom that he had been denied it himself. 

For a moment, Jafar considered what the prince-thief and the princess-Sultana had done to Agrabah with that misinformation. But what good would that do? Should Jafar had truly wanted the throne, he would have decided that night in the oasis and he would be very much seated on it now. If he did return, he knew it would not be for reasons to rule; but for blood. 

Nevertheless, revenge isn’t so one-dimensional as violence, Jafar believed. If the restraints of the genie had taught him anything, it was that true power as he had now was the purest resource there was, and if the man was to be believed, the sick Sultan would die without him and his enemies would learn the errors of their actions; their punishments would deflect unto themselves. It would be a pain ultimately more deserving than anything Jafar could conjure. What better situation could he possibly have asked for? 

“I’m not going back,” thus Jafar stated, turning back to his wine. 

The man shook his head and laughed at him. He was drunker than Jafar had anticipated. Lucky bastard. 

“Yes, you are,” he had said, eyes glinting with a lustrous shine, wolf-like in the moonlight. The man’s left hand suddenly drifted to his belt and, unsheathing a knife, he lowered it below the counter to which Jafar felt the tip press lightly against the major artery of his inner thigh: “You’re coming with me. And I’m going back. Unless you'd like to die out here, nameless, in some corner of the world. Your choice, m’ lord-”

He interrupted himself with a yelp. The man had suddenly retracted his right hand from the nape of Jafar’s neck, clutching the digits to his chest. Jafar saw the flesh on the man’s hand had begun to blister and swell from what looked like a burn. He was a little surprised himself; he had barely retaliated, did not even register the magic emanating from him. It was akin to punching someone in the face without realizing it, he thought. 

Yet the man was screaming in pain all the same. Angry red splotches had covered the palm and the digits trembled with every curse the man uttered, voice full of agony. He did not retreat immediately though; waving the knife at Jafar in a frenzy. The annoyance within Jafar had ebbed into a dull throb behind his eyes; the first signs of a sudden, fast-growing headache. The man was still screaming.

“Y-you...devil! Damn it, my hand… I-why, y-you evil son of a-!

At this point, everything seemed suspended in water for him even as a fiery pressure began to build in his chest; as if alcohol had been poured into his lungs and set aflame. The man had raised his other hand in an attempt to sink the blade in Jafar’s chest but froze, eyes suddenly wide as saucers when Jafar’s gaze lifted to meet him. 

The knife slipped through his good hand and bounced off his stool before landing with a dull thud on the dirt-covered floor. The music from the festivities backlit by claps, cheers, and footfalls seemed to fade in Jafar’s ears as he perceived the man before him suddenly standing and began backing away mechanically, almost tripping on the stool in the process. Those were the last seconds of peace Jafar remembered from that night.

The motion of the man scrambling for purchase at bumping into the stool made something explode behind Jafar’s temples. The pain - oh the  _ pain _ \- was nothing he had ever experienced, even if it had lasted for barely a fraction of a second. Jafar fought not to double over as the glass of wine - half-full - he had held burst into shards in the hand he had propped against the counter of the bar. 

What came next was familiar to Jafar; it was the flow of magic from him and it felt  _ good _ ; like a pent-up sneeze. He was barely able to register it all as he numbly brought a hand to his head as the very act of thought became an effort (a dam? Or a blood vessel? Is this what a heart attack feels like? Can genies die?). 

Jafar breathed in and decided that if he was to die here, he’ll at least make his last act a scientific reflection of why he died. He knew quite a bit about sorcery; that it was nothing if not a fair bit of talent, knowledge, and control - emphasis on control. Without maintenance and practice as well as continued refinement, sorcery could as easily curse the victim as kill the practitioner. He himself had met and read of warlocks and witches who’ve fallen prey to channeling of too little or holding back too much and burst into flames, melted into a puddle of acid or worse.

But the power of the djinns, Jafar would come to learn, thrived more on instinct and less on precision. Genie magic was quick to make itself useful, less calculated, and more in-the-moment. But for what it lacks in sophistication, it makes up for in force. If left unchecked, genie magic would not engulf the user in flames or turn their blood to acid, but rather wipe them from existence entirely. 

Both types of magic were perfectly manageable, and together, they were an unbreakable alloy of the perfect - and purest - form of power. Or at least Jafar had thought. The fact is that if sorcery was such a vial of poison in the hands of a trained assassin, genie magic was a ten-ton artillery war cannon manned by a battalion. And in applying years of discipline and keeping his own reservoirs of magic in check, Jafar had grossly underestimated just how much power he had built up in drawing from all the liveliness and energy of the celebrating crowds around him in the past couple of hours. In other words, he had quite effectively stuck his head down the barrel of his own proverbial cannon.

Alright, maybe not so far down the barrel. Jafar had let go of his restraint at the last moment; when the pain had struck. Pain saved him, though it wasn’t quite the time to consider the irony of that. The man with the once wolfish gaze was now clutching onto his eyes, then clawing at his ears, throat, mouth… The barkeep had run to call the manager some paces away and the other patrons had turned to regard the commotion. Some with impassivity, some with concern - and then all with fear when the most horrible cry Jafar had ever heard tore itself from the man’s throat. 

The man’s scream resounded through the bar but made it not to the heart of the festival; where the music had drowned it out. Jafar backed away from the man as trickles of blood began to pour from his ears and corners of his eyes; painting the dust at his feet in red, accusing droplets. He raised a finger at Jafar, dropped it then ran off; disappearing around the corner of a closed bazaar tent.

Jafar felt eyes swivel to him and murmurs rising even as he scanned the crowds, casting a thought into the waves of people, unable to ward off its urgency and desperation. For a terrifying moment, he stood there, alone. Until a small figure emerged from the crowd, brown hair plastered to a forehead shiny with sweat and chest heaving. But the thin brows of the boy were furrowed, and the smile he had earlier was banished from his face now. Jafar numbly wondered for a second why the boy had cared to come running. He had expected him to call him into the lamp, then leave for somewhere more private. 

Nevermind that, he thought and quickly pulled the boy aside, ignoring the questions the boy had inevitably begun to bombard him with. Jafar kept to the shadows, and the boy followed until they were on the somewhat quieter streets, further from the commotion. Jafar had then told him that they must leave at once. 

“What? We just got here! What’s wrong?” the boy had asked. Jafar told him that the city was frequented by brigands and pickpockets for the number of tourists before falling quiet. The boy did not speak for a bit after that. They both knew that he was lying, but Jafar was only glad when he was met by no other questions. 

A nod and murmur sent him back in the lamp and they were on horseback once again the next day. The boy made his final wish a week after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, this has been a very ambitious chapter and I apologize heartily for writing during the witching hours then not proof-reading. Characters are going to start having names when I start dealing my commitment issues lol
> 
> Anywho, this is clearly no longer a one-shot, and I am planning for 5 chapters. I really just need closure and I'm writing this mostly because it's slowly started to become the content I want to read. This either means my writing has improved or my standards have plummeted. 
> 
> Also, I feed on comments and kudos so y'all know what to do. Thank you~! ;)


	3. Afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jafar needs a hug - whether he knows it or not.

Jafar was surprised to hear that the boy wanted to head south after Tehran. Crossing the Arabian sea was one thing the boy would not give up on, for some reason - and so they did. The ship that had carried them was a three-masted cargo galleon with some cabin space for the sailors and passengers. Some magic had been necessary to get them a cabin onboard, and even more for Jafar to conceal his identity. After all, it really wasn’t worth the trouble of tossing someone overboard to be recognized and apprehended. 

The trip was a lot faster than any of the crewmen anticipated; the wind being ever behind them and the currents pushing as if at their very whim. Two days later they were on the shores of Mecca; along the Red Sea. The boy refused to call it anything other than the Carmine Channel though, to Jafar’s internal displeasure.

It had been part of his title as Grand Vizier and was nothing now except a sharp reminder of the past. At one point under Jafar’s command, Agrabah’s militia had expanded across its waters to such a degree that no ship could have crossed the upper and lower straits without encountering the royal guard and naval forces.  _ Keeper of the Carmine Channel _ , so the man had called him. But as Jafar looked upon the broad expanse of water that seemed to stretch as far as the earth itself - deep in thought as the waves that batted against rocks that have seen more sunsets than there is sand beneath his heel, he wanted to laugh at those words. How could this gargantuan belt of liquid life be anyone’s to keep? Much less  _ his? _

Mecca laid most conveniently on the trade route that flowed with gypsies from Dhamisk to Fortiva; from Quataru to the Rhinelands; crossing through Shirabad. None of such places were as Jafar remembered. There was a somber aura in the eyes of merchants, peddlers, and shopkeepers. Craftsmen kept their heads low and gaze lower beyond the walls of the kingdoms and the normally very vibrant oasis was eerily hushed; despite there being still many - if not more - people traveling between them. It was as if the desert was holding its breath.

The boy didn’t run as far as he would normally have from Jafar; nor skipped as high. Word of brigand raids and bandits in the dunes was believed; as were that of vagabonds and smugglers that serviced them. Only the kingdoms were considered safe, but even so, the boy stuck closer to his genie’s side even in broad daylight; and not just out of fear. 

The dry season was upon them and they had only traveled closer to the equatorial plains beyond Persia. Even if Quataru - as they were situated now - was further up the Channel than many other kingdoms. Quataru was known for their exports of precious sapphires found in the Quatari mines bordering the Atrazak Mountains; of which Jafar had frequented in the past - even more so in the dry season. The sun was as unforgiving as he remembered; scorching the earth bone-dry and leaving refuge only in the alleyways lined with crooked buildings and under the occasional overhanging tarp of a shop. 

The boy was miserable on these occasions. Jafar told him that he’ll conjure some clouds for him if he wanted - free of charge. Perhaps even rain; wouldn’t the boy like to see a storm? The boy’s eyes had lit up at the notion. But before Jafar could flood the streets of Quataru with the heaviest rainfall the city would ever see, the boy shook his head and pointed to some people hanging out laundry and drying meats on a rack outside their homes. Others were content with digging holes for beautiful bouquets to set down golden sun cups and fairy dusters. 

“You can’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair to everyone else,” he said to Jafar. 

Jafar stared at the boy, not sure if he was more perplexed or aggravated at the suggestion.

“Fair?” Jafar breathed: “You have a  _ genie _ . Overcoming the need for fairness is the entire point of my power.”

The boy only shook his head and only continued to walk. Yet Jafar didn’t miss him reaching up to wipe at the sweat from his forehead every once in a while or ducking into his shadow whenever they turned. After a while, the boy turned to Jafar as they were admiring some dyed silks hung from a merchant’s booth, shimmering in the sun. Jafar pretended to be unaffected by the boy’s stare. He never could get used to how piercing some children’s gaze could be. 

“Why aren’t you melting like I am in this heat?” The boy asked him. Jafar blinked at him before holding out his hand. The boy took it and gasped. His hand was cold as ice.

“Genies are able to extract sound, heat, light... Any form of energy, really,” He explained but trailed off as the boy began rubbing his cheek along the back of his hand. Jafar recoiled at the sensation of sweat on the boy’s face, drawing his hand back. But before he could utter another word, the boy rushed forward, wrapping his arms around Jafar’s waist in a clumsy hug. He could feel the boy’s frame relaxing as his rib cage shifted to release a small sigh of bliss at the chilling sensation.

Jafar let out a hiss of air between clenched teeth, and after a moment, attempted to pry the boy’s arms away from him - to no avail. He could feel the heat from the boy passing into him as his own magic fluctuated to deal with the sudden spike of surrounding energy radiating into him. It brought on an uncomfortable rush and seesawed his equilibrium - much like the dizzying sensation of standing up too quickly.

“What are-What do you think you’re doing?” Jafar growled. The boy looked up at him before rubbing his forehead against Jafar’s sternum.

“This feels nice.”

“Not for me,” he breathed. The boy eventually stepped back for a moment, looking up at Jafar with a small furrow in his brows and a sheepish smile on his face. It was the look of every child before they asked for something, Jafar thought.

“Could you keep me cool like that? Give me something for the heat?” the boy asked. Jafar noted that he did not make it a wish. Another favor, it was.

Even if he had already known that he was going to grant it, Jafar still pondered a bit on how. The quickest would be a simple spell; though the boy had asked for an item.

But the boy had mistaken his brief silence for hesitation and already reached for the lamp clipped to the saddle of his steed. Jafar felt his throat close up. In one motion, he’s reached into the shadows of his cloak to draw away a smaller piece of fabric. The boy froze and watched as the genie dragged his hand down the cloth’s length; and the shadows began to shed and shape itself into a silk hood and cape. Once it had formed, Jafar let go. The cloak - now a shimmering mass of metallic darkness - hovered in the air for a second before drifting to drape itself onto the boy’s waiting arms.

If the shopkeepers and nearby Quatarian market-goers saw the cloak lift and lower itself, the boy would not have noticed. Jafar felt himself let go of a breath he had held as he watched the boy’s eyes fill with awe and joy, running small hands over the dark, metallic fabric. A small gasp was elicited from him.

“This…is not silk.” he exhaled, looking up at Jafar - who shook his head. The boy looked back to the fabric, rubbing it in between his fingers: “It’s so cold… But like armor. You made me armor.”

“Not exactly,” Jafar replied, rubbing the back of his neck and taking the horse’s reins so the boy could examine the cloak closer. 

“But it feels like it.” The boy stated, then looked up: “And this will keep me cool?”

“Sure,” Jafar shrugged, suddenly a little restless. Even though the square they were in was as crowded as ever, he realized that the people around them made a wide berth. He felt the occasional shy and wary stare as plainly as thorns dragged across his skin and shifted his shoulders. Jafar tried to get a hold of the magic rolling off him as he grew uncomfortable at the surroundings. He felt like a shark in a school of fish and forced himself to focus on the boy. 

The boy had draped the cloak around his shoulders and with a sigh of relief, pulled the hood up and over his head. He tugged it shut around his arms, closing his eyes as the heat was drawn out from him. Jafar had made it long enough to sweep the ground as the boy walked, a hand gripping onto the edge of his cloak and another leading the tireless stallion behind him. They were traveling out of Quataru tonight and arriving at Shirabad sometime tomorrow; likely the late afternoon. By then, Jafar would be able to comfort himself with the notion that he would be even farther from Agrabah. 

They made it out the northeastern gate of Quataru without much problem. The boy mounted the steed and withdrew the lamp from the saddle. He glanced at him in expectation from atop the horse, and Jafar stilled. His restlessness seemed to increase tenfold, so instead of willing himself back in the lamp, he cocked his head and rubbed the back of his neck. Damn it all - he might as well address his discomfort if expected to obey its every whim.

“What do you want?,” Jafar spoke, glancing up at the boy. He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. But from the look on the boy’s face, he clearly did a pretty poor job at it.

“I--” The boy’s hands tightened around the lamp as his eyes darted from Jafar and back to it. 

“No, I’m sorry... I meant - What would you like? for a final wish,” Jafar corrected, suddenly filled with more self-hatred than usual. When did he ever become someone to make his problems other people’s problems? Or apologized, for that matter? Jafar mentally kicked himself at letting the boy know of his mood; really the one thing that could be weaponized against him.

The boy made no motion to reply for a moment. Then he shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said. Jafar could tell he meant it.

“I could give you a kingdom,” he said to him in earnest.  _ Shirabad  _ \- he thought; kicking the ruling family to the ends of the world by dropping a crown on this one’s head would be ideal. He ran a hand through his own curls of hair in thought: “A thousand loyal subjects to love you and worship the very ground you tread upon. I could give you a palace overflowing with luxuries and promise you a life of nothing but pleasure. All you have to do is wish for it.”

“But why would I wish for that?” The boy asked. 

Jafar’s voice dipped just short of a growl: “You’re refusing my offer?”

“I don’t take what I don’t need.” The boy said lightly: “And right now, I don’t really know what I need. And I’m not sure if a palace would solve that.”

“Well, you ought to figure it out sooner rather than later,” Jafar muttered. The boy stared at him from atop the horse, his eyes bright as a beacon in the late afternoon sun atop the dunes. They pierced into Jafar and he averted his gaze as he shifted his weight on the soft sand; suddenly invested in the space behind the boy’s shoulder.

“You want something too, right?” It wasn’t a question. The sky darkened overhead and the wind began to throw plumes of sand up in the air harsher than before. Jafar ignored the insanity manned by the magic that was clawing at the back of his mind. Nevertheless, clouds that were never there before had draped across the sky, blotting out the last rays of the sun. 

Jafar decided not to reply, not trusting his words.

“But you’re avoiding it.” The clouds grew dark, and in the distance - a faint crack of lightning could be seen. Jafar breathed, still looking anywhere but the boy. The boy continued: “I don’t think you should. Whatever it is, we can go find it.”

The storm thinned as Jafar laughed; breathlessness dipped in madness: “You wouldn’t want that. Nobody would want that.”

The boy shrugged and glanced at the horizon. Jafar stared at the youthful wistfulness in his gaze, then shied away when that same gaze - leaking with curiosity - pierced his own. There was something very honest about the boy when he spoke. It made Jafar uncomfortable; knowing that someone with such a lack of secrets and regrets could end up tied to him; a man who got unnamed crimes longer than the silk road. 

Even in terms of power, this child, this _boy_ , supersedes him; technically because of one moment in his past - a measly mistake in a mountain of successes. The smallest stain that ruined a carefully woven tapestry; caused by a singular moment of allowing his sentiments to take the reign. _Well,_ Jafar thought, _consider_ _that the last time it happens._ Nothing ever good comes out of having his emotions read. But he needn’t worry about that. It’s not like anyone could even if they wanted to...

“Maybe. But you’re sad.” the boy was saying, then frowned - studying Jafar in that way that made him feel powerless: “And angry.” 

...except this one. Great; another vice, another reason why he’s the most powerful incompetent in the universe. A laugh escaped him. 

“I think the word you’re looking for is  _ disappointed - _ in failing to find purpose in this conversation,” Jafar finally scoffed: “Look, if you don’t know what you want for a final wish right now, fine. But don’t ask about what I want unless you want to be disappointed too.” 

“Why would I be disappointed?”

“Because I won’t tell you.”

“Oh...Well, that’s fine, I suppose.”

Jafar saw the boy’s shoulders fall. But he didn’t look sad. Instead, Jafar recognized his expression as that of pity; as if he was some blind beggar in the streets. Jafar immediately bristled.

“What?” he all but growled. The boy had the audacity to give him a sad smile.

“You’re not just sad and angry,” the boy ignored Jafar rolling his eyes: “You’re more afraid than anything. You’re scared of what you want to find. That’s why you’ve been avoiding whatever it is.”

Jafar stared at the boy for a moment, half expecting him to go on and half hoping he wouldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to admit that he was right; he could hardly bring himself to admit that he still had wants when knowing he may never fulfill them. Yet did it really matter? Is it really worth being afraid when you’re a literal all-powerful, immortal being? Being under the power of a master is of little consequence in these matters; knowing that you will outlive anyone and anything that has ever been or will ever be - except your own regrets. What has it been - ten years already? Jafar was tired of running from shadows of the past.

“Agrabah.” 

“Huh?” the boy huffed out in confusion.

“That’s where we ought to head next. Agrabah; for what I want. I won’t tell you what it is; only some unfinished business.”

Badly veiled cockiness spread across the boy’s features: “Of course.”

“Another thing-” Jafar let a sugary smile - as sincere as he could muster - tug at his expression.

“Yes?” the boy’s eyes grew wide in inquiry.

“Refer to me as afraid of _anything_ again and I’ll have you choke on your own tongue.” 

He was mildly annoyed when the boy didn’t seem jarred by his threat, nor that convinced. Instead, he watched as the boy only shrugged and returned a smile of his own:

“Agrabah it is, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof - sorry for the wait. I've been working on my an Instagram art account (@lesdessinsdiaboliques) and had a serious case of writer's block two days after posting chapter 2 and realizing I literally did not have a plot. Crisis averted though and I'm back! Two more chapters, my dudes!
> 
> My take on this chapter is just Jaffy realizing he can't run from his problems forever; and as uncomfortable as it is facing his past event of turning insane-all-powerful-megalomaniac-sorcerer, it really isn't worth running an eternity from. Also that if he screws this reunion up, he still has an eternity to keep running. Or eventually, weasel his way out of servitude and unleash hell sooner or later. 
> 
> Small public Q&A to help for the next chapter:   
> What's the most ostentatious but mysterious/sphinxlike animal that one can legally own? Leave a comment. :)


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